A Darkness Unleashed (Book 2) (44 page)

“I think I can find us some help – help once promised by someone I believe is a friend.”

“In the name of King Arathan III, I claim the abandoned city of Avaros for the Kingdom of Gannon and for myself and my heirs. May we rule here until time finds its end.” – Donnas Vonstrass, First Duke of Avaros, Warden of the Southern Realm, 65 A. R.

H
igh Elder Varon Hastrian paused near a stone basin to dab water on his face. It cooled his skin, but only added to the wetness that already beaded around his jowls. A servant in light blue finery offered a pristine towel, and Varon dried his hands and neck. A cool breeze entered through the high window, offering him a respite from the early summer heat of Daynon.

A goblet of chilled white wine sat on the servant’s tray, droplets of water beading on the silver. Varon picked up the goblet and rested its coolness against his overheated skin. He waved in dismissal and the servant backed away, his head bowed. After a long, refreshing drink from the cup, Varon took a deep breath and continued his stroll down the gallery hung with crimson curtains. The Lord Chancellor’s carved oak door swung round the arc of the inner wall, and Varon moved to knock.

“You may enter, Elder,” came the confident voice from within.

Distaste rising within him, Varon drew a deep breath and pushed the door open.

“High Elder.” The Lord Chancellor folded his hands inside the sleeves of his fine charcoal robe. “I heard you left Gavanor not long after the king, but headed in the opposite direction.”

The shiny silver pendant hanging on the chancellor’s chest drew Varon’s gaze. A rampant dragon clung a gigantic opal of blue and green in its claws.

Varon met the smug look on Sammin Vyce’s face. “I see you no longer wear your quill of office.”

“I am no longer the Lord Chancellor of the kingdom.” His grin spread. “I am now the Lord Regent.”

Sourness grew in Varon’s stomach, and he knew it had nothing to do with his lunch of lamb’s brains and strawberries. He forced a smile and bowed his head. “Congratulations, my friend. Arathan is a wise king to leave such a stalwart servant of the kingdom in charge while he marches bravely into the Wastes.”

Sammin Vyce stood and strolled around his wide desk. “Events have begun to accelerate. I have news from the south. A Vonstrass fleet sails north to protect the capital from the Hadonese army now ravaging Valen – or so the rumor goes.” He put his weight against the carved ebony. “Duke Ferric leads them, and he is bringing the boy.”

Joining the sourness already there, a spike of disquiet stirred in Varon’s gut. Sweat began to trickle down his back and he could feel it bead on his forehead. He glared at Vyce, whose face looked cool and dry. The chancellor, now regent, still held a neutral expression, though Varon knew the man relished surprising him.

“This is why you insisted the king take me with him,” Varon said, the acid in his stomach creeping into his tone. “It took me until we arrived in Gavanor to convince Arathan I was needed elsewhere. Now it is obvious how sorely I am needed.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “It is far too early to expose the boy. Arathan is not yet dead.”

Vyce adjusted the inkwell next to his leg, taking great interest in its proper positioning. “Arathan VII will not return from his last great battle, I assure you. Nor will our foolish friend, the doctor.”

The nervous fluttering in Varon’s bowels overtook the sourness in his stomach. “Then you found the…the assassin?” He looked over his shoulder to make certain he had closed the heavy door. “The…special one?”

His hand leaving the inkwell and returning to his sleeve, Sammin Vyce cleared his throat. “Yes. And he has a desire to taste the life force of a king. Arathan will not return from the chaos of the battlefield. Nor will any other potential heirs. I made that clear.”

Some of his unease settling, Varon shifted his travel-stained black and white robes. “What did this cost?”

The Lord Regent straightened and moved back toward his chair. “Only my permission.”

Anger built within Varon, driving away the nervousness. “You still need me, Sammin. You will need the Temple to vouch for the boy’s heritage, if you want this lost scion story to be believed.”

Vyce sat down and offered a curt nod. “The turmoil caused by news of the end of the Navigator’s line will have the people in such an uproar that they will be desperate to believe anything we tell them which might bring back order.” He gestured at a narrow chair. “Now sit, Varon my friend, and we will discuss your place in our future plans.”

“Darkness existed before the Light.” – Caladrius Dreamwalker

S
argash, Chieftain of the Mammoth Clan, newly chosen Warchief of the united clans, collapsed to his knees. Sweat beaded on his upper lip as the pain coursed through him in waves of agony. He tumbled to his elbows, pleading whimpers escaping from his lips. None of them achieved full words. Panic twined its way into his mind as he felt his energy, his very spirit, begin to sap away.

“Do you have any further questions, Warchief Sargash?” The female human leaned in over him as he writhed in torment. “I am aware this is the body of a human and I am very aware it is a female. I am also aware of its power, as now are you.” She waved her hand out over the supine gathering of orc chieftains and shamans. “There are many here from your tribe and others, who would be quite willing to follow my commands.”

The pain wracking his body increased, though Sargash would not have thought that possible. A thousand rats gnawed at his insides, while his blood turned to acid in his veins. More of his spirit slipped away, leaving a hollowness inside his soul. He felt his physical endurance begin to wane, and then the suffocating grip of death. Then suddenly, the pain was gone, and its absence surpassed even the greatest pleasure.

The woman’s face screwed up in an ominous glare. “Are you sufficiently convinced, Warchief?”

Sargash gasped for breath, fiercely nodding before he squeezed out a few words. “Yes, my Master.”

Galdreth’s vessel straightened, with a confused, almost startled expression. “You will call me Mistress, and until you’ve earned otherwise, I will call you slave.”

His numbed limbs fighting him, Sargash backed away on all fours, scraping his head on the stone floor. “Yes, Mistress. Of course, Mistress.” His breath began to return. “Please grant me the favor of your command, My Mistress.”

The woman folded her arms and stared down at him with those icy blue eyes. Blackness swirled over them like oil dripping into a clear pool. The rage writ on her face resounded in her voice.

“I want Slar of the Boar Clan found! I want his broken, traitorous body dragged before me still breathing!” She raised both fists in the air. “I want the clans to gather their strength, and then we shall strike out again at the human lands. And this time, no one will be left to stop us!”

A pair of Mammoth warriors tromped into the throne chamber, a bruised and bloody orc between them. Sargash slunk closer to the other chieftains, while his new mistress turned to focus on the new arrival. The guards tossed him down at her feet before backing away.

“Ah, Brother Ortax.” Her voice returned to an unnerving calm. “Your lips may be silent, but I can read you well enough. I know you aided the traitor in his escape. And even if you did not, you will still make a fine example to the rest of these fools.” She rounded on Sargash and the others. “Note the pain he has suffered is nothing compared to what is in store for him in death. I will drain him of his very essence and consume it for my own. His spirit will never arrive in your Fiery Halls.”

The woman gestured toward Brother Ortax, and the near unconscious shaman convulsed in pain Sargash knew eclipsed his own. He had never heard a scream like the one that emanated from deep in Ortax’s chest, and Sargash had made it a point in his life to exact screams from his foes. A few shamans gasped, their eyes transfixed on their suffering former colleague. Even Sargash felt a splinter of sympathy for the tortured Boar, but he dared not even think of aiding him.

With a sudden finality, Ortax stopped flailing and his scream faded. The empty shell of his body collapsed. The guards came close to pick it up.

“Feed it to the pigs,” the woman commanded. “No pyres for traitors.” She flung out her arm to point at the chieftains. “Remember that, all of you.”

Sargash kept his body flat on the floor as his mistress turned to leave. Only as a warrior opened a door to her private rooms did he lift his eyes from the flagstones. Beneath her ink-stained eyes, a single drop of water trickled down her cheek.

Photograph by Bradley Daniels

I
t is well known that J. T. slew several dragons in the pasture near the farm where he grew up. He found the hidden Waterfall of Life deep in his grandfather’s woods, with only his little brother and their dog, Pongo, to aid him. Many other quests, often borne from the classic books of fantasy literature, consumed his days and nights.

After a long dark quest through a much feared land known as “Q’orp’orate Qubicle”, J.T. Hartke was cast out to find his own way. He spent a short time cooking for a mad master and another stint as a fool. He learned many lessons during his exile, the greatest of which led to his muse. At last, J. T. took it upon himself to create his own quest—and thus was born
The Dragonsoul Saga
.